


Passerus domesticus

by purrslink



Category: A-Team (TV), A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: Feeding, Hostage Situation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrslink/pseuds/purrslink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caught in a plan gone bad, Face has to ensure that Murdock gets through alive, no matter the means, or his thoughts on the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passerus domesticus

The one thing about fighting for survival is you never actually plan on doing it.

Ok, fine, there are exceptions, like when you sign up to go overseas to fight in a hazily-explained war, you kind of have some idea of what you’re getting into. Particularly when the first greeting off the plane is: “Welcome to ‘Nam, don’t tell me your name until you’ve lived through the first week.” Definitely not reassuring, he can tell you that right now.

But that part of his life is gone with the MREs, the horrid green fatigues, and the swampy bog that passes as a jungle, replaced instead with a Corvette, nice suits, and the occasional excitement in the form of Hannibal Smith, BA Baracus, and H.M. Murdock.

He had been experiencing the last type of crackling energy that morning, finding the pilot under a picnic table on the V.A. grounds in a pre-determined location for a pre-determined escape. “Hey, you ready, Murdock?” He smiles at a nurse in the distance, waves a bit, even sits down to make it look like he’s going to stay awhile. 

Murdock, however, is distracted as always, looking up into the tree with a pair of binoculars that he remembers getting the man last Christmas. “Almost, Faceman. Just one more minute.”

Naturally he has to know now what has the pilot so enraptured as to be staring, upward, with his mouth open. Not usually a good stance even when not under a bird infested tree. “What are you looking at?”

“A female Passer domesticus,” Murdock recites smoothly, not budging from his position, cross-legged on top of the table. “Commonly known as the House Sparrow. About six inches, just a bit of yellow on her wings. Been watching her for weeks, buildin’ a nest, fluffing it up, sittin’ on those eggs day in and day out. Devoted as a Buddhist to the Eight Fold Path.”

He’s not sure what that last bit is, but he does know that his watch says eight past twelve. “Well, I don’t think she’ll be going anywhere for awhile, but we have our own path to go down, if you know what I mean.”

When the pilot doesn’t move, however, he sighs and wonders why, oh why, did he ever buy the binoculars for the man. Yes, it was worth it then seeing his face light up, and there’s still something gratifying in seeing the Southerner sit so still, so absorbed and captivated. But they’re going to be late if they don’t leave soon.

“Oh, oh, Petruchio is back!” Murdock crows, and he’s surprised the birds aren’t scared off by that alone.

“Petruchio?” He’s almost afraid to ask, almost afraid to indulge his friend by doing so. But he does anyway, because it's Murdock, and he has a hard time saying no or staying away.

“And be it the moon, or sun, or what you please; And if you please to call it a rush-candle, henceforth I vow it shall be so for me!” 

The English accent is the only thing that gives him any idea of what that is. “Shakespeare?”

“Taming of the Shrew,” Murdock confirms, eyes still fixed on the two bustling sparrows, now chirping in what could be construed as annoyed. “They’re off to a rocky start, but I got all the faith Beatrice will come around. Petruchio ain’t a bad fellow, just a bit too smooth for his own good.”

As much as he loves English literature and birds… “That’s nice. You can check up on them when you get back, though. I’m sure they’ll have lots to tell you.”

He stands, tugs on the pilot’s elbow a bit, and then a bit more until Murdock unfolds his long legs and stands, Petruchio startling off into the thicker trees. “Buan giorno, darlings! Don’t you hatch those chicks without me, mama, but if you do, be sure you name one after your good ol’ man, er, over there.”

He rolls his eyes and glances at his watch again, driving the point across with a, “Murdock, they’ll be fine.”

But the pilot isn’t phased. Just hops down as happy as can be and begins to saunter toward the front, long legs already preparing to sprint. “Oh, I know they will, Faceman. You see, the common House sparrow may be considered a pest by most amateur ornithologists, but they mate for life.” The pilot pauses to toss him a bright smile over his shoulder. “Kinda sweet, ain’t it?”

Before he could think of a response to that the long legged Texan takes off for the front, sprinting past an orderly who doesn’t particularly have enough time to register exactly what is going on to stop him. Shaking his head – Murdock, being Murdock – he takes off after the pilot and reminds himself that next time he should actually have some kind of plan. This running is doing nothing for his suit.

Of course, that had been about the extent of escaping he had expected on this trip, which was why everything went to hell the second day into the plan.

He should really expect this by now.

Yet it still takes him by surprise (or is it annoyed acceptance by now?) when he finds himself cornered, hands on his head, eyes down the barrel of a very mean M16 and wondering exactly what he is going to do now that he's established biting sarcasm unlocks the safety. Particularly when one-third of his rescue party is right next to him, same position, mouth still running a mile an hour despite his repeated throat-clearing coughs and nudges with a hip.

“You know, with your big guns there, you’d think you were compensatin’ for somethin’, like those big cranes do in Africa, the ones with the big frills an all that puff up in order to attract a mate. You tryin’ to attract girls, is that it boys?”

Apparently the goons have less appreciation for Murdock’s special form of obsessive humor, which is why they are now locked in the basement and have been for the past five days, occasionally brought out to be screamed at and roughed up since, after all, revenge can’t happen unless BA and Hannibal are here too. And obviously the prisoners would have contact with them, since, you know, they're psychic.

It’s not too bad, though, he thinks as he’s tossed back down the basement stairs the first day. They’ve been through worse, can survive worse. And when he states so to Murdock, brushing off dust with bruised arms, the pilot laughs and helps him clean himself off.

"Ain't two better people for this job than us, Faceman." Murdock smiles at him, face startlingly close. "Birds of a feather flock together."

And when he thinks about it, it does kind of make sense. After all, they seem to do everything else together on missions, so why not play captive together? It's nice to have a friend, particularly one like Murdock, who knows all the verses to American Pie.

He doesn't have to worry so much with Murdock here.

The pilot just has that effect on him.

But he’s singing a different tune the next day when Murdock comes back with a badly bandaged head wound, still bleeding through the thin bandanna that all the grunts seem to wear, and a jaw that is obviously misaligned, broken even if Face does say so himself. 

Murdock lets him help with the bleeding, giving him a woozy smile made all the more lopsided by his jaw. “They didn’t like my analogy about peacocks and their bandannas, Faceman.”

He’s too busy pressing on the gash on the pilot’s forehead to do much more than snort. “I can’t imagine why they did.”

“Least they ain’t pea hens. Poor things ain’t ever goin’ to win awards for ‘Prettiest Of’ in the avian world. You’d think they’d appreciate me complimenting on their attractive appearances.” A shiver and a groan run through Murdock as he leans back against the cold grey walls. “Though if they really want beauty, they’d do better to take after rainbow lorikeets. Now those are the pinnacle of bird beauty and charm…”

“Shhh,” he tries to little avail, and he shakes his head as he feels the pulsing under his fingers begin to lessen a bit, blood flow going down. 

He doesn't know how Murdock talks with his jaw like that, going on about the difference between lorikeets and parakeets and something called a budgie. But if the Texan can still drawl then it's not what he's going to worry about just yet. It’s not even the cut he’s worried about but the blood loss, particularly as the pilot’s Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup shirt is already turning brown from that AB negative drying. 

Too much for too long.

But when he voices concern Murdock waves the words aside with a limp hand, painfully managing out, “Don’t worry about it, Faceman.”

He does though, and rightly so, because they’re on the sixth day now and have only just been fed for the second time, an after thought of an action really. Murdock has had water, a bite of bread, but his jaw is still puffy, bruised, sagging unnaturally and unable to work enough to eat anything. They've managed to realign it, but even the strip of long since dead Reese's shirt can't hide the fact that the Southerner is having problems talking. Combined with infection setting in and cold nights, what little blood remains in the Texan’s system is moving slow. 

Scarily slow.

Now he sits by the passed out Southerner, single bottle of water and Ziploc bag of bread and what looks like beef jerky in front of him as he debates his course of action. They both have to eat, have to have something in their system or the next round will push them further to an edge that is much harder to get out of then go over. 

He’s in better shape, jaw not hindered from keeping his strength up, body not as thin as the pilot’s. And though he has his own injuries underneath the now ruined shirt, he has a majority of his blood still in him and pumping at an acceptable level. All in all, not too bad, though not by any means fantastic.

Another look at Murdock however has him sighing. Pale, too damn pale, breathing slow and feathery thin, not enough color to even pass for normal in those cheeks. As much as the pilot needs rest, particularly for that knock to his brain that is covered by the hastily applied bandanna, he needs food more. 

Food means blood means color means strength means a not dead Murdock on his hands.

And an alive Murdock is a non-negotiable part of his survival plan.

It takes a few pats on Murdock’s cheek, but eventually the pilot groans, screws his eyes a bit tighter before reluctantly creaking them open. “Face?”

A rock falls into his stomach at the way those brown eyes are filling with tears over something as simple as talking. But broken jaw or not, the pilot has to eat, has to get something in him or he won’t last another round. “Yeah, it’s me, buddy.”

Sliding two fingers against the pilot’s neck, he distracts the Texan with, “You need to eat something, Murdock.” The Southerner’s pulse is slow, much too slow.

Murdock sighs, tries to pull away from the fingers. “Oh, Faceman, you need it. Besides…” He has to stop, wincing, waiting for his jaw to stop throbbing. “Can’t masticate like this.”

He blinks at the word, swearing for a moment he heard something else. The Texan grins up at him as best he can, even as tears roll from the corners of his eyes, and he realizes it had been meant to be misheard. A joke, even now. “Murdock, you need to eat.”

But the pilot just shakes his head, a weak hand fluttering against the con man’s shoulder. “You, Face…gotta be awake when ‘annibal an’ BA come…”

And that’s the threshold for the pilot, Murdock grunting in pain and closing his eyes. Face frowns, deeply, brushes the man’s hair behind his ear and tries to think. He knows what Murdock wants him to do, but the man is crazy, and with all due respect, a fool right now if he thinks Face is going to watch out for only himself. Yes, someone has to be awake when Hannibal and BA get here, but that doesn’t mean only one of them has to be alive.

No way will he leave Murdock behind like this.

But how do you get food to a man who can’t chew?

It hits him quite suddenly as a bird flies by, chirping loudly. The nest, the V.A., the long discussion regarding the feeding patterns of the common North American House sparrow. Including the young, and how they’re fed…

Disgusting, yes, but will it work? It should. If he does this right, if he can stomach doing it, it should. And while part of him is already dry heaving at the very idea, it only takes one look at the pale face of his friend, the tear trails left shining in the faint light, the slow pulse of that exposed neck for him to win the fight against his own automatic revulsion.

So with resolve he tears off a piece of jerky and tries not to shudder as he stuffs it into his mouth. He hates dried meat, he really does. The salty, briny taste of it, the hard texture, the tang. But between the meat and the bread, the protein is the better option. Especially considering the pilot’s state right now.

It seems like it takes forever before he manages to chew the hard edges down into a messy, warm pulp in his mouth. His first instinct is to spit it onto the dirty floor, out of his mouth that’s so used to fresh options and choice cuts.

But he doesn’t, wills himself to keep it in as he wakes the pilot once more. “Hey.” Maybe he should have done the talking before the chewing…

Murdock’s eyes flicker open. “They here yet?”

He smiles, just a little, at the easy hope in that voice. “No…sit up, bud.”

That gets the pilot’s eyes to focus a bit more, brow furrowing. “What?”

He’s already tugging though, helping the pilot sit up and steadying him when blood rushes from Murdock’s head, threatening with darkness. Yet just like him, Murdock is resolute when a choice is made, and since he isn’t giving the Southerner a choice, there’s only one way to go.

“Face…” Murdock pants, licking dry lips as the words rattle out. “What’s going-”

His lips meet the pilot’s with a bit more force than he means and Murdock grunts as he’s pressed into the chilled wall. And he tries not to think about what it would be like to be the pilot right now as he passes the chewed up food as gently as he can from his mouth to the Texan’s. Tries not to think that this is his best friend he’s doing this with, tries to tell himself this isn’t awkward at all, doing it with another man, that it’s survival and warranted.

Murdock splutters slightly, wincing even as he does that and Face pulls back. “Faceman?”

He’s gagging a bit himself, not used to that scrape of stubble or chapped lips or doing this with someone you’ve seen mostly naked and not in bed. Or doing this at all. Not to mention, you know, exchanging already been chewed food. And for a second their eyes meet before they both look away, reddening.

Awkward, yes.

He’s already reaching for another piece however, tearing it into a smaller portion. “Swallow all of it, Murdock.”

The pilot obeys, mostly out of shock. As he starts on another piece of the jerky, a hand fists into his shirt, tired brown eyes fixated on him in lingering surprise. “Face…don’t. I'll be fine. They'll be here soon…”

He shakes his head, knowing that pleading tone. Words want to berate the pilot for even thinking he would consider that course of action. But instead he just shoots him a small smile, rubs a hand over Murdock’s cold wrist, and leans in to, for lack of better word, kiss the pilot again. Murdock resists only for a minute, but Face has the advantage of strength and position, and he has another mouthful transferred moments later. No gagging this time, maybe a flinch on both of their parts, but it’s easier now, the shock value passed.

Passed by enough for him to realize that he seemed to fit there, with Murodk, almost naturally. Sort of kinda of maybe likes that fit, despite the iron in his own mouth now.

Watching Murdock to make sure he can swallow easily, he reaches for the stale bread next. “How’s a second course sound, buddy? Looks like some fine white bread here.”

“Sounds like a regular Vegas style feast,” Murdock quips back slowly, making him smile, helping push back the obvious disgust level of this. “They got tater tots?”

He makes a show of checking even as he starts trying to rip the obviously moldy parts from the crust. “Nope, sorry. Just baguettes, flown in fresh from France; still warm even.”

Murdock snorts, closing his eyes again and he only catches part of the retort. “…with the chef…”

He won’t make this awkward, won’t think about exactly what this looks like or the fact that he kind of wants to kiss Murdock properly, just to see if it would feel like he thinks it would: warm, stubbly, welcoming, loving. This is his best friend, not one of his conquests, and besides, the pilot doesn’t swing like that. Hell, he doesn’t go that way; at least, as he glances at the lithe form of the Texan and those long, slender fingers, he’s fairly sure he doesn’t.

Not that he hasn’t thought, once, maybe twice…

His face flushes and he turns to hide, concentrates on the bread, at ripping off small pieces.

Murdock is pawing at him again though, weak tugs on his shirt to try to get his attention. “Face…”

The plaintive whine causes him to pause, a chill running up his spine as he looks back to the pilot. Murdock’s eyes are focused, slightly fevered, but there, and though the makeshift bandage re-enforcing his jaw looks silly, he’s just happy that the man still has strength to talk.

At his blue eyes on him, Murdock wets his lips and draws in a shallow breath. “Water?”

He smiles, had been expecting another attempt to get him to stop. “Sure, hold on.” Water is doable, something he can pour right from the water bottle and into the pilot’s mouth with a strong hand around Murdock’s neck to help support him. No lip contact needed.

That’s a good thing, yes.

“That better?” He asks quietly, giving a small encouraging smile as he runs a hand through that damp brown hair. “Want more?”

Murdock shakes his head and manages, “No mas.”

A new language means enough concentration there to be alert, which he can live with. It means the Texan isn’t weak enough to be unable to focus. “All right.” That doesn’t mean he’s stopping here though. “Come on, you need more in you than two, ah, things of jerky and water.”

As he shoves bread into his mouth however, his jaw beginning to go numb, he turns to find Murdock’s brown eyes watching him, lidded now, but amused. He raises an eyebrow to that, unsure of exactly what is amusing. Him, the situation, what?

To his surprise, his answer comes quickly. “Cheep, cheep?”

It takes him a moment to get the joke, and he does have to laugh, talk around his mouthful. “At least there aren’t two of you. I’m not sure I’d be able to keep this up.”

The pilot smiles and settles back into the wall further, stiffly. “You’re a good mama bird…”

He snorts, moving in to tilt Murdock’s chin up gently, so very carefully, and answers with another mouthful. Wonders if it would help if he pretended this was a kiss in some stupidly romantic spot, if it would help at all. This time the pilot accepts it, tentatively helps a little even, though the effort causes the Texan to seize up at moving his jaw too much.

“Let me, buddy,” he says quietly, pulling back.

Murdock doesn’t answer right away, just concentrates on swallowing. But when the food is gone and the pilot is breathing normally again, he shakes his head. “No more, Face.”

He frowns, already onto another bite, shakes his head at that, no, and holds up a single finger. One more. The pilot cracks an eye to see the gesture and makes a face. But he doesn’t give up, one, until Murdock sighs, resigned, and nods. When those eyes close he adds another bite of jerky in with the bread he has. They hadn’t determined size of one more, after all.

“Face…” And he turns again as a hand fumbles for his attention. “Thanks…”

There are layers in that single word, ones he could peel away slowly and appreciate, examine exactly how much pressure Murdock is putting into the light squeeze on his knee and conclude just what the pilot is going for here. But they’re stuck in this boarded up basement, cold, and hurt, and right now he has more important things to worry about than what exactly the pilot is thanking him for.

He just smiles instead, runs a hand around the Texan’s ear, and leans in for one more longer kiss. And this time he can’t help but pretend that they’re at the beach, on a sunny hillside, in his car, at the back of a theater during a dramatic love scene, kissing someone who, try as he does, always turns out to be Murdock, always kissing back…

Then, almost too soon, the pilot has it all and he pulls away, hovers as the man swallows it thickly. They really are done now, because he can see the energy leaving Murdock, pain taking precedence over food. It’s almost pointless to ask, but he does. “Want to lay back down?”

Murdock frowns at himself, wavering even up against the wall. “Might be…a capital idea.”

It’s the worst British accent he’s heard from Murdock, but he’s not saying anything. Instead he reaches out and catches both of the pilot’s shoulders, eases him on to the ground, bunches up the Texan’s jacket as a pillow, and restrains himself from running a hand up that long arm. “Get some sleep, buddy.”

“Bossy today,” Murdock mutters, shifting to try to find a comfortable spot with broken ribs.

“I am second-in-command,” he reminds, knowing this argument and falling into the pattern.

“I out rank you.”

“A technicality!”

Murdock smiles a little. “Both know the Army loves the little things.”

That gets a laugh as he pats the pilot’s arm and picks up the remaining food to feed himself. “That they do, buddy. That they do.”

And to his surprise Murdock moves, slowly, but decidedly, scooting forward and resting his head on the con man’s thigh. He freezes, not sure what to do, why this is happening, torn between wanting to comfort and to preserve this friendship. But Murdock answers the question for him by settling, tugging on the jacket until Face helps him get it out from under him. “Floor’s cold.”

“Of course,” he says, permission filtering through even as he spreads the jacket over the pilot’s frame. “I’ll try not to move too much, you know, save my exercises for later.”

But Murdock is gone, asleep with a much more content look and, more importantly, a bit more color there as well.

So he stays still and eats in silence, and tries not to think about how he can still feel that slight stubble on his chin, the heat from the man’s breathing still in his mouth, that slight taste of tang not from dried meat or stale bread on this tongue. Tries not to think about how he kind of sort of really does want to know more.

This is Murdock, his friend. Not a lover. He really shouldn’t be thinking about this so much, should chalk the feelings up to a Florence Nightingale kind of thing in reverse and move on. He is not in love with Murdock, no.

Maybe kinda likes-no.

Survival.

Nothing more.

That's what he tells himself as he's taken upstairs the next day, a few good kicks to his sides revealing nothing except that he still knows how to smart alack back even though his mind isn't there right now. It's still downstairs with the pilot. Realizing how while even broken and bruised, the man still felt right, still felt like the next step in something that had been building for years, still felt like it could be natural if he could just get over the fact that this is his friend he is thinking about. 

His best friend he’s imagining in his hands, in his lap, in his bed…

And when they’re rescued that afternoon in an impressive combination of low-grade explosives, automatic gun fire, and a car through the first floor living room, BA kicking out the door so hard it goes flying down the stairs, its him who helps the pilot up and out into the bright afternoon sun.

Murdock squints against the light, head tilting up as two sparrows scuttle off under the eaves. "Passer domesticus."

He's quiet for a moment as he slides open the van door, piling the pilot in. "Someone once told me the common House sparrow mates for life."

Brown eyes blink at him in not uncommon surprise as of late. "Yeah, they do."

"Sounds pretty nice, huh?" He says lightly, drawing a blanket over Murdock, not looking those eyes square on, not quite sure what he means himself.

"Yeah, it does," Murdock says slowly, still watching him, confusion clear in the pilot's still features. "Though it ain't exactly monogamy in sex. Just in living partners..."

He thinks about that for a moment, wondering when the hell his life was comparable to a fucking bird. "Oh."

As if sensing the unease, Murdock brings a hand to his cheek, cupping it slightly, giving another pained, small smile. "Still a nice thought though, ain't it?"

He nods into that hand a bit...then puts his own over it. "It is."

The directness catches Murdock off guard again, he can tell, because the pilot freezes and frowns just a bit, like he's struggling to figure something out. Just like he's trying to figure out exactly how he feels, what he should say, what he wants to say...

BA and Hannibal appear however, striding fast, ready to go even as Hannibal says, "Let's go, Lieutenant."

Their hands drop as doors slam, belts buckle and soon the house and the basement are in the distance, a distant place becoming a distant memory. Or, most of it. Because while the bruises are already fading and the aspirin is helping soothe away the aches, he can't forget the fact that he's not entirely sure about the label of best friend anymore. Not sure if it's the right label, the one he wants, the one it should stay.

Something he's only reminded of when Hannibal asks from the front, "We need a hotel, a doctor, and food." Two blue eyes peer in the rear view mirror at him. "You up for it, Face?"

He nods. Easy. "I can get us a doctor, Hannibal."

The Colonel nods, looks to Murdock. "What are you hungry for, Captain?"

Murdock answers, sleepily, thickly, with a hint of a grin in his eyes as the pilot glances at him, "Oh, I dunno Colonel. Beef jerky is always nice..."

And he'll probably never explain why it's so funny, why he laughs at the statement or why Murdock reddens slightly and burrows into his blanket as blue and black eyes stare at them incredulously. But that's all right. They don't need to know until he figures it out himself.

Which he'll do, after he finds them a doctor for their new batch of injures.

But mostly for Murdock.

Always for Murdock.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [ateam_prompts](http://ateam-prompts.livejournal.com/) meme.


End file.
